Monday, 16 August 2010

HOME.

I’ll take my chances with the tramps and vagabondsWho belong to a different age;Where pages made fine blanketsAnd trinkets were exchanged for songs.When a bench was a sensible berth for the night andThe blight of middle-class lifeWas reserved for those high bornWho had fallen upon hard times themselves.

I’ll make my bed in a working class palace whereBread is abundant and coffeeComes tumbling from tin cups onSunday that are used in a snap box all week.Where tea is twice squeezed from its bags and a biscuitIs dragged cross its surfaceIn case it should fall to the coldGreasy liquid below and have to be left there.

I’ll learn my words in a school room long pulled downFrom a teacher from townWho remembers me still andHas born time’s mantle better than I ever will,And where every lesson bled into the next exceptWoodwork and we hadTo change clothes for PE inFront of each other and no one gave a damn.

I’ll cut my teeth in the streets where I was born andThe neighbours knew whenAnd how old I was because they’dBeen there to see me fall on my face in the lane;Who had known my parents forever and when anyoneLeft they did so feet firstOn a gurney and everyone’sCurtains were drawn in respect of a lost friend.

I’ll break my back on the tracks of the rail thatMy father and his father Braved in order to draw coal From the graves that other souls dug.With a smile on my lips for a good day’s graft atThe pit head or dock sideWhere a fairy could serve as aBride and a groom could find room for his mind.

I’ll make my love on the settees and sofas that wereShoved to the back wallIn summer but pulled closerTo the fire place in winter to save fuel.With a girl I schooled with who no longer wearsShort skirts and a womanI’ve found in another playground Half way around the world who I wish to die with.

I’ll raise my own son in the borders of YorkshireWhere the truth is replantedEach year with the wheat and theChaff laughs at the fact that even it’s worthy.Where my boy can grow into a man surrounded byA land that has been pivotal In this country’s history and noDoubt once more will shore up its softer centre.

I’ll make my peace in the North of my EnglandWhere the blood of its kinWas first spilled by WilliamWho should have stayed his violent hand;For he made in its name a way of life that cannotBe named by the crowdsIn the South who are still afraidTo venture beyond Watford’s stillborn walls.